


Pretend

by Anonymous



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Author has booked a plane ticket straight to hell, But maybe not this kind of hug, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Porn with Feelings, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: If Peter closes his eyes, he can pretend.





	Pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Притвориться](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496614) by [tunnenbery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunnenbery/pseuds/tunnenbery)



> Someone had to do it.
> 
> The scene where Beck puts on the glasses REALLY got me, okay?

_ Even Dead, I’m The Hero. _

Typical Tony stunt, Peter thinks as he sits outside. His legs are dangling off the edge of the bridge he’s sitting on. It’s dark out, his class had gone to bed but he couldn’t sleep, which is how he found himself here, turning over the EDITH glasses over and over in his hands. How long did Tony think about his own death that he had all these… these  _ things  _ left afterwards, all these instructions and plans for everybody he knew in the event of something happening to him?

How long had Tony  _ believed  _ that he would die before he could finish things here, in real time, with the friends and family he had made?

It made Peter feel sick in both his stomach and in his heart to think about how Tony had made all these preparations because he somehow just  _ knew  _ he wouldn’t be here to do it himself. He knew he wouldn’t be here to see Morgan grow up. He knew he wouldn’t be here to make amends with Captain America. 

He knew he wouldn’t be here for Peter anymore, so he did the next best thing he could think of.

Peter slips the glasses on.

“Hey— hey, uh, EDITH?” Peter says, voice still so unsure with the new tech. He had seen Tony wear these glasses countless times, and Peter can’t get over the fact that they just don’t look good on himself in more ways than one.

_ “Yes, Peter?”  _ EDITH says, her voice so casual, so confident. It reminds him a lot of KAREN, back in his nano-suit. 

“I—“ He starts, and then realizes he has no idea what he wants to say. 

_ “...Yes, Peter?”  _ EDITH repeats herself, patient.

“...Nevermind.” Peter eventually says, and he takes the glasses off and folds them in his hands again. He sighs. What was he even doing?

“Something on your mind?” A voice says, and Peter jumps, but he’s long past being surprised by his lack of Spidey-sense working. Ever since— ever since Thanos, his sixth sense had taken a vacation. Peter could hazard a guess it was a result of all the stress and trauma and terrors he had been through, like everyone else, but hadn’t bothered to look further into it. He should probably do that, actually, but he didn’t feel like bringing anything up to May just yet. He wasn’t… he wasn’t ready to talk to her, despite her insistence.

“Ah— uh, can’t sleep?” Peter offers, turning his head to look up at Quentin Beck, out of his full Mysterio armor and in something more casual, more comfortable. Peter watches as the man takes a seat next to him, dangling his legs over the side, just like the kid. 

“That makes two of us.” Beck says, hands folded in his lap but Peter sees him glance down at the glasses in his hands. Peter covers them protectively, on instinct. Beck let’s out a huff of a laugh, a small bit of air through his nose as the man moves his eyes down to the dark water below.

“Not to sound like every other person, probably, but—” Beck starts, and then looks at Peter’s face. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Comes Peter’s immediate reply, the words naturally slipping off his tongue. Enough people had asked him that same thing; Ned, Michelle, May— the only person who never insisted on getting him to open up about anything was no longer here. Wouldn’t ever be here again.

“Careful,” Beck says, and Peter only then realizes that his hands had started squeezing the glasses. The boy immediately loosens his grip, not sure what he would do if they would break under his super strength on accident. 

It’s quiet for a couple moments because Peter doesn’t offer up any type of conversation, but he doesn’t entirely ignore Beck either, not wanting to be impolite. 

“Were you two close?” Beck speaks up eventually, and the question takes Peter off guard.

“Huh? Who?” Peter asks dumbly, looking at the man. He notices Beck motion to the glasses in his hands, which Peter looks down at, turning them over in his fingers.

“Oh.” Peter says. “...I guess you could say that.” He replies, holding back the very obvious  _ yes, yes I would like to think so.  _ And the  _ Yes, he was my only waking thought for years.  _ And  _ Yes, yes, yes, he was my everything.  _

Despite not voicing any of his thoughts, Beck must be able to see it clear as day on Peter’s face. He must be able to see everything that Peter feels— he was never good at hiding his expressions.

There’s a hand on his shoulder then, heavy and warm and confident and it feels too,  _ too  _ familiar to Peter.

The tears don’t stop, after that. They glide fast and hot down his cheeks, splotched red now, and Peter doesn’t even bother to hide his face.

“Hey— Hey, hey, no, don’t do that.” Beck says, and he scoots closer and wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” He apologizes.

Peter feels a hand in his hair, fingers sliding through his locks and pulling him so his head is underneath Beck’s chin, tucked into his shoulder, and Peter is reminded of the last time Tony had hugged him. Minutes before Tony’s last moments.

The sob that wracks his body is loud, muffled only by Beck’s collar and the man’s insistent “ _ Shh, shh,shh…”  _ against the top of his head.

“You’re okay, kid.” Beck says, his breath hot against Peter’s head. He’s still holding the boy close, fingers still in the kid’s hair while his other arm is wrapped tightly around the slender body.

Peter continues to cry against the man, the firmness of his chest on Peter’s cheek and the feeling of strong arms around him bringing back memories— but they weren’t bad ones. Bittersweet, yes, but a sense of comfort came with it.

“I miss him.” Peter says, and his voice is small and shaky and he’s been trying  _ so hard  _ to not admit it out loud, because putting the words into the air felt like admitting it was all real and for a little while he could just pretend that Tony was on another trip abroad and couldn’t make the time to call or text him because he was just too busy.

But that wasn’t quite true, either— Tony, no matter how busy, had  _ always  _ made time for Peter like he did for nobody else. It had made Peter feel important, like no one else had made him feel.  _ Loved,  _ like only May had been able to do— but that… wasn’t quite right either.

Tony had made Peter feel loved in a different way. Different from his Aunt, or his friends. Different in a way that Peter kept to himself, locked deep away into his chest and never mentioned it to anybody. Not even Tony.

“I’m sure he knew.” Beck’s voice, low and gravely, cut through Peter’s thoughts like a knife.

“Huh?” Peter mumbles, pulling away to look at the man.

Beck shrugs, looks sheepish for a moment before a cool face of confidence washes back over him.

“I was just saying that he— er, Tony— probably knew how important he was. To you.” Beck says, and this close Peter can see the white hairs littered throughout the man’s unkempt beard, carbon-dating his age.

Tony, when Peter could get close enough, also had white hairs in his well-trimmed goatee.

A thought goes through Peter’s head, tearing through his core and leaving savage, open wounds, raw to the touch— painful. So horribly, horribly painful.

Beck recognizes it, and Peter feels the man’s hands twitch against his body.

“Peter—” Beck says, beginning to pull away but a quick flash of  _ panic  _ courses through Peter’s body and he grips the man, keeping him close.

“No, don’t—” Peter starts. “Please, I’m sorry, I just need—” He says, frantic, but unable to finish his sentence. Need, need,  _ need.  _ There’s an ache in his chest that throbs in the worst way, gaping and open and even the air feels toxic, hurting him in a way that makes him feel like it’ll never get better. 

Like it’ll never heal.

“Peter…” Beck says again, but his voice is different, but cautious. Peter watches as the man glances at the glasses held firm in Peter’s hand, and something shifts between them.

“I don’t think this’ll help anything,” Beck’s voice is low, his mind made up. “But I’m not—” At this, he pauses and looks away, trying to find the words. Peter takes the chance to look closer at the man’s face, at the way his hair is a little lighter than Tony’s was. His beard is less cleaned up, and his eyes are a different shade.

“Put these on.” Peter says suddenly, pulling up the EDITH glasses and unfolding them, pushing them onto Beck’s face without even waiting for the man.

“Hey—” Beck tries to protest, but doesn’t stop the kid entirely. He does reach up and adjust them on his face and blinks several times before looking at Peter.

Peter’s breath stops, hitching in his throat. The only light they have is from a streetlamp some yards away and it’s dark enough that Peter can— that he can—

Beck doesn’t move when Peter leans forward and closes the distance between their mouths. Doesn’t push Peter away either and watches the kid’s face when they separate.

Peter looks torn, like something inside of him is shredding itself as they sit there in silence. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet, and his cheeks are splotched pink and his lips are parted only the smallest amount.

When he leans in again, Beck meets him halfway, his hand coming up to tangle through Peter’s hair once more and their mouths move together carefully. Slowly.

Peter should feel bad, he thinks. He  _ should,  _ but he doesn’t. The ache inside of him has only worsened and it’s making him deaf to anything else except for the feeling of  _ this,  _ right here, right now.

He feels Beck’s lips move against his, careful and slow and tender and it hurts Peter more than helps him so he pushes forward and takes the man’s bottom lip between his teeth and  _ bites. _ Not terribly hard, but hard enough that the reaction is immediate; it’s like a switch flips in Beck’s head and suddenly Peter is being bent back, fingers digging into him painfully and the sound of a  _ growl  _ hits his ears. Peter whimpers, opening his mouth to the hot tongue that slides across his lips and demands access, letting himself be completely devoured by the man. His skin is sensitive from the facial hair scratching against his chin and the kid can’t help but wonder if this is what it  _ would have  _ felt like with— with somebody else.

Beck stops the kiss in favor of kissing and biting along Peter’s cheek and jaw, trailing all the way down to Peter’s neck and pushing aside the collar of his shirt to get at the skin near his shoulder. His hands are still gripping Peter, holding him in place as the man attacks his neck with teeth and tongue and beard.

“We—“ Peter whines. “We have to get off the bridge, I-I think,” he says, his fingers squeezing the fabric of the man’s shirt. There’s a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, some form of uncertainty that always comes with decisions like this. He knows what he’s doing is wrong, but for the first time since he got home, his mind is finally quiet. Preoccupied, but quiet nonetheless.

Beck mumbles “What? You afraid of getting seen?” Almost playfully, but Peter finds no humor in it because the amount of times he’s come close to being caught in any number of situations is too high to laugh at and there’s a specific anxiety that comes with it after a while.

“P-please,” Peter begs, and he gets another growl from the man and a sharp nip to the skin on his neck that makes Peter yip in pain.

But Beck is standing up, and then pulling Peter up to his feet with an impressive amount of strength. Peter’s feet nearly trips over each other as he’s dragged down the length of the bridge, a hand on his bicep with an unrelenting grip. He looks at the back of Beck’s head, sees the glimmer of metal reflecting the soft light behind his ear from the glasses, sees glimpses of a beard as Beck looks around them.

It isn’t Tony, but Peter thinks it’s pretty damn close. Especially as he’s pulled into a damp alley, his back slammed against an uneven stone wall and his front immediately covered by the hot firmness of an older male body pressing into him. Their bodies are covered in darkness now, and only with the help of his enhanced vision can Peter really make out anything if he tries. He doesn’t.

Instead, he closes his eyes and lets out a high moan as Beck goes back to his neck, biting and sucking brutally and Peter isn’t even worried about any marks. He brings up his hands and tangles them in the man’s hair instead, wondering if Tony’s hair was softer or would be stiff from product. 

Without prompt, Peter’s feet are kicked apart and a knee is pushed between his legs. Peter pushes his hips forward, feeling Quentin’s own covered erection against his stomach as he grinds against the man’s hip and thigh. The friction is amazing.

“Oh, f-fuck,” Peter whispers, and his mouth is covered by Beck’s again, who is pushing his own hips forward in a delicious rhythm of friction for them both. Something about it is all so dirty and unappealing to Peter but the thought is overshadowed by the way he feels better than he has in weeks. 

There are firm, calloused hands sneaking up his shirt now, pushing it up so his stomach is exposed to the air and Peter reaches down with one hand to start working on the front of Beck’s jeans. 

This has the man moaning, biting at Peter’s lip as the boy reaches into the man’s underwear and pulls him out into the open air. Once his fingers are around Quentin’s cock, he squeezes but doesn’t do much beyond that.

“I’m s-sorry—“ Peter starts, because with this he can’t just wing it and hope for the best. “I’ve never done this,” 

This earns him a laugh, low and amused, right against his lips that are red and sensitive from the constant scratching from Quentin’s beard. “That’s alright, babydoll.” He says, and one of his hands leaves Peter’s nipple and instead wraps around the small hand at his cock. 

Peter’s head is swimming at the pet name.  _ Babydoll.  _ He’s heard Tony say such names to his robots, to James Rhodes as a joke— and once, to Peter, when he had messed something up in their lab work and was horribly anxious about it but Tony reassured him.  _ That’s alright, babydoll. _

Peter whines, impossibly desperate and sad at the same time and he hears the soft  _ “Shh, shh,”  _ Beck says as he undoes Peter’s jeans in a matter of seconds and has them both pulled out into the hot air between them.

The kid bucks his hips when fingers glide across his dick, no longer in the confines of his underwear and jeans and clearly grateful for it. He moans into Beck’s mouth as a thumb swipes over the head of his dick, gathering up the precum that has gathered there and spreading it across the rest.

“Sir—“ Peter whines, because his body feels hot now. He’s going to start babbling soon, which is a thing that happens when he’s close, and with the way Quentin is working his dick it’s going to happen soon. 

Peter tries to return the favor but he’s slow and sloppy with how he holds the man’s cock in his hands. He attempts to mimic everything Beck is doing to him but he can’t keep up and it seems like Beck doesn’t really care right now about how Peter jerks him off.

There’s a tongue, hot and demanding in his mouth, licking over his teeth and overtaking everything about Peter. “C’mon, baby,” he hears, whispered huskily against his lips, and Peter is thrusting his hips up into the hand wrapped around his cock, shiny and wet with precum and desperation.

If Peter keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend. His imagination has always been vivid, and this time is no different. He can see it clear as day; they’re in a supply closet, back at the Compound or the Tower and Tony has Peter trapped there, legs spread and pants down at his knees and giving him beard-burn he never thought he could get.

“Mr. Stark—“ Peter says, hears the man in front of him laugh, but that’s okay. Tony would be amused too by how juvenile and unpracticed Peter would be in these situations. He would take the opportunity to teach Peter so many things then, about both of them, starting with their time in the supply closet and then moving into more appropriate places like Tony’s huge bed, and they would spend hours there.

“Peter,  _ baby,  _ you’re gorgeous,” Beck says, his voice at Peter’s ear. “Be good for me, yeah?” And that’s not exactly how Tony talks, but Peter appreciates what the man is doing. 

“Tony,  _ Tony—“  _ Peter says with no air in his lungs and sweat on his brow, fucking into Beck’s fist as he pulls the man closer and clings to him helplessly. There are tears on his cheeks and Mr. Stark’s name on his lips when he finally orgasms, coming into Beck’s hand and a little on his own shirt.

Peter is dizzy, nearly dead weight as he comes down from his high, with Beck stroking him through the aftermath until he’s twitching with overstimulation. 

“Good boy,” Beck says, kissing Peter again.

Peter mumbles something into Beck’s shoulder, turning his head to nuzzle at the man’s neck. “What about you?” He says, Beck’s cock still hot and heavy in his small hand. Peter gives it a squeeze, stroking it with feather light touches that has Beck hissing.

“Get on your knees.” Quentin demands, and Peter gasps with the sound of it, his own spent dick attempting a twitch because holy shit, that’s pretty hot. 

Peter doesn’t hesitate to slide down to his knees, wincing at the gravel that digs into his shins from this position, but he doesn’t have much time to care before Quentin’s dick is in front of his face.

“I’ve never done this before either,” Peter gets out quickly, a layer of unease settling in his stomach now. 

“Open your mouth and stick your tongue out.” Is Beck’s only reply, and Peter feels like he has no other choice but to listen. 

The taste of precum is more bitter than Peter imagined it would be, and the kid wants to pull away and grimace, but he doesn’t because he knows he shouldn’t. Instead, he focuses on the weight of Quentin’s cock on his tongue, heavy as it pushes further into his mouth.

“Mind your teeth, but close your mouth now.” Beck says, and Peter tries his best, covering his teeth with his lips and pulling his tongue back in just enough to be able to close his mouth. After a second, he swirls his tongue around the head of the cock in his mouth and Peter is pleased at the grunt he elicits from the man above him.

“Just stay like that.” Quentin says, and Peter makes a noise around the cock in his mouth in acknowledgment. The man starts rocking his hips then, slowly at first so Peter could get used to the movement in his mouth, and slowly gaining speed.

There’s something erotic about having a cock in your mouth, thrusting in and out, nothing but the man’s natural musk invading your nose, Peter thinks. His head is getting dizzy all over again and his stomach feels warm, the taste only getting marginally better but only because it isn’t such a shock anymore.

Peter shifts, adjusting how he’s sitting on his knees in favor of placing his hands on Quentin’s thighs, bracing himself a bit better. He lets out a sound that sends vibrations through the man’s cock and hears another hiss above him. Then, there are fingers sliding into his hair, clutching at Peter’s curls, and the boy’s stomach flips. Quentin thrusts in, this time a bit farther than before, and Peter gags.

“Relax, kid.” Beck says, and he does it again, pushes his hips too far and Peter chokes, coughing around the dick in his mouth. When he attempts to push away, though, the hand in Peter’s hair tightens and keeps him in place. “C’mon, baby, you wanna be good for Tony, right?”

The words come as a shock to Peter’s system, completely halting everything in him. This time, when Beck pushes in too far and Peter gags, he doesn’t try pulling away.

“Good. Good boy.” Quentin says above him, voice full of gravel, and his hand tightens in Peter’s hair as he pushes forward into the teenager’s throat.

It’s rough, really. And unpleasant, Peter thinks, but there’s very little he can do about it. Very little that he  _ wants  _ to do about it, with the man’s words echoing in his head.  _ You wanna be good for Tony, right? _

Of course he does-- it’s all he’s ever wanted to do, and now he won’t ever get the chance. This… whatever  _ this  _ is that he’s allowed himself to fall into, is the closest he’ll get now.

Fresh tears fall down Peter’s face, both from choking too many times on the cock between his lips and from so much more, welling up inside of him and finally coming out. He pushes forward as Beck thrusts, feeling the head of the man’s dick push farther into his throat and it’s painful, more painful than porn will ever let on, but somewhere deep in Peter’s core, he feels like it’s meant to be this way.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend. It’s Tony’s hand in his hair; Tony’s legs he’s gripping onto; Tony’s dick in his mouth-- and the genius just got so carried away with how  _ good  _ Peter is that he’s losing it a little, losing a tiny bit of control as he fucks Peter’s throat. And Peter would be fine with that if it were Tony. Peter would do anything for him, would suffer through anything for him if it meant that Tony would smile and laugh at him again and call him  _ babydoll _ and  _ darling _ and  _ love. _

Quentin’s thrusts grow erratic right before he comes, and when he does he grunts, low and loud and feral, his face twisting into something that looks nothing like Tony, even with the glasses on, and Peter makes the mistake of looking up because he’s immediately slammed back into the reality of the situation.

It’s disgusting, Peter decides, the taste of a man’s spunk on your tongue. Thankfully, Peter twists his head away, gasping and coughing for air after the first couple releases into his mouth and winces at the feeling of the rest of it landing on his hair and the side of his face, dripping down to the front of his shirt.

They’re both gasping for air with Peter trying to catch his breath and cough the nasty feeling in his throat away, and Quentin simply trying to wind himself down from his orgasm, cock hanging limp and only inches away from Peter’s face.

They’re silent for a few moments but eventually Beck is fixing himself, re-doing his pants and flattening the wrinkles in his shirt out. “C’mon, kid.” He says, gripping Peter’s arm and pulling the teenager onto his feet. “We can’t stay here forever.” And he fixes Peter up too, using the bottom of Peter’s sweater to wipe away the cum on his face and shirt. It’s almost touching.

Peter, however, can’t even look at him. He’s still wearing the glasses and Peter is feeling more and more sick about everything that just happened.

“I’m going to head back first, okay? Wait a couple minutes and you head back, too.” Beck says, and then he places one hand on Peter’s shoulder that the teenager desperately wants to rip away from, but doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Is all Peter says with a nod, glancing up at Quentin only once before lowering his eyes again. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweater. The taste of cum is still on his tongue, sticky and disgusting, and he feels like he needs to take three showers in a row in order to feel marginally better.

“Okay. I’ll see you around, okay?” Quentin says, and then he turns to leave but Peter reaches out and grabs the man’s sleeve, stopping him with an inhuman amount of strength.

“The glasses.” Peter says, and he looks up at Beck this time. “Please.”

The man stares at him, and does something that Peter can only categorize as hesitation but eventually Quentin laughs. “Ah, yeah. Oops, almost walked off with them.” And he reaches up and takes the glasses off, folding them in on themselves and handing them to Peter.

Peter takes them almost possessively. “Thanks.” He says, because he’s polite if nothing else, even when his world is crashing around him and burning his soul at the edges.

“Anytime, kid.” Is all Beck says before Peter lets him go and the man heads off, leaving Peter alone in the dark and damp alley.

Peter looks at the glasses in his hands, noticing only now that he’s shaking. How long had he been shaking? Does it matter?

He slides down the uneven stone wall until he’s slumped against it, knees pulled to his chest. He puts the glasses on, the metal warm from just leaving Beck’s face, and it makes him frown.

“EDITH?” Peter says aloud.

_ “Yes, Peter?”  _ EDITH responds, voice soothing to Peter’s nerves.

“I have to kill some time…” Peter starts and pretends he doesn’t hear his own voice shaking. Pretends his eyes aren’t as wet and blurry as they are. “Can you… can you play videos and stuff?”

_ “Yes, from several sources like NewsNow, or YouTube, or Netflix--”  _ EDITH starts, but Peter interrupts her.

“Can you show me videos of… Tony Stark? Maybe ones where he’s at the StarkExpo?” Those ones had always been Peter’s favorite, because Tony had been giving a speech and showing off new tech and the man had always looked so passionate. Peter could always feel Tony’s love and energy for his work during those moments, and Peter would record them on May’s DVR when they were on TV and watch them over and over and over again.

_ “Of course, Peter. Give me a moment.”  _ EDITH says.  _ “Is there a specific one you are looking for?” _

“No… just play all of them. Please.”

The first video pops up in Peter’s vision, colors paled and slightly transparent so Peter could still see through the glasses in front of him, but it was good enough. The video was playing and he could see Tony walk up on stage, smile large and inviting and his arms splayed wide to accept all the applause coming at him.

Then, his voice started. Welcoming and thanking everybody, and Peter closed his eyes, imagining that he was at a StarkExpo, standing in the crowd, listening to Tony go off about another world-changing invention to everybody with as much love as he always did for technology.

Peter kept his eyes closed, because at least while his eyes were closed, he could always pretend.

**Author's Note:**

> "Author has booked a plane ticket straight to hell" is gonna be my anon tag so people can find my other works here bc I have a couple more planned I guess?
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the pain and angst and whatever the rest of this mess was. Please let me know how much you're hurt after FFH, thanks!


End file.
